In Deed and In Truth
by WinterSky101
Summary: All of the womanizing was just a front to help Aramis ignore the fact that he was terribly in love with his two best friends and certain they weren't in love with him. And it worked, until it didn't. Aramis/Athos/Porthos. First in "Love Covereth All Sins."


**Apologies that this didn't get put up yesterday when it was supposed to; I just got back from vacation and I'm still just starting to get back into the swing of things.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Musketeers.**

* * *

Aramis wasn't sure why this had taken so long to hit him.

Porthos had left the widow - Alice - that afternoon, and Ninon de Larroque was God-knows-where and far from Athos. If any time were right for Aramis to worry that they were going to leave him and dwell on the prospect that they might enter long, committed relationships one day, it had already passed.

So why was this night the one on which the terrifying thought had descended? Aramis had always known their friendly camaraderie wouldn't last forever, but he had expected to at least have a few more years until it came to an end. Was it to be torn from him so early? Was there nothing he could do?

For a moment, he felt he might drown in his own hypocrisy. How could he have such thoughts about his friends' lives when he himself could be found with a different woman practically every month? _nolite iudicare ut non iudicemini. in quo enim iudicio iudicaveritis iudicabimini et in qua mensura mensi fueritis metietur vobis. quid autem vides festucam in oculo fratris tui et trabem in oculo tuo non vides._ The words had practically been burned into his mind by his parents and later in the seminary, during the year between Isabelle's disappearance and his joining the military. _Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?_ Matthew 7:1-3, the story of the Mote and the Beam from the Sermon on the Mount. Words every devout Catholic knew, words Aramis could recite in his sleep. Words that ought to make Aramis feel cripplingly guilty about his opinions on his friends' relationships.

But it was different with them. Aramis wouldn't leave his friends for a woman. Had that not already been proven with Agnès? She knew better than to even ask him such a thing; it was clear he would never leave. The thought that perhaps Porthos and Athos did not feel the same way was petrifying.

Perhaps things would be easier if Aramis could simply state the truth - that he was unconditionally in love with both of his best friends and that his promiscuity was, for the most part, a distraction to keep him from dwelling too much on those feelings. But such things were not spoken aloud except with the greatest delicacy. The law and the Church both decreed love between two men a perversion; love between three could only be worse. Aramis couldn't believe that his God would punish people for who they loved, but he was no naive fool; he knew the law and the Church would do so without hesitation. And Aramis' own fear of rejection was not insignificant; he would not be able to bear it if he told Athos and Porthos of his feelings, only for them to push him away because of it. Would they be disgusted at the thought, he wondered? Would they wish to distance themselves from him? Did they believe that such feelings were blasphemous and wrong? Aramis didn't want to believe they did, but he feared it. He would not speak.

A knock at his door tore him from his thoughts. For a moment, he worried that it was Athos or Porthos, but he quickly assured himself it wasn't; Porthos would not have knocked, and Athos had left for his own lodgings after the celebration for d'Artagnan's commission ended. He would have no reason to return so soon.

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan's voice called through the door. "Are you in there?"

"Of course," Aramis called back. "Enter, my friend." D'Artagnan poked his head in the doorway, frowning slightly.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, looking a little worried.

"A simple headache," Aramis replied, gesturing at his head with an unnecessary flourish. He could have hit himself for it after; he only made excessive hand gestures like that when he was upset or nervous. Both Athos and Porthos knew that well, but it seemed d'Artagnan hadn't yet figured it out, as he said nothing about the motion as he frowned and backed away as if to leave. "D'Artagnan, if something is wrong, please enter," Aramis called before he could close the door. "You seem troubled. I'd like to help, if I can."

"It… It is a matter of the heart," d'Artagnan admitted. Aramis frowned.

"Am I now to discover why you declared to have learned not to put your trust in love?" he asked. D'Artagnan entered the bedroom, looking remarkably like a kicked puppy. "Come, is there trouble between you and the lovely Madame Bonacieux?"

"There is nothing between myself and Constance anymore, except bitterness," d'Artagnan muttered, sitting next to Aramis on the bed. "She said we were fooling ourselves, and that there was no future for us. She called what we had a silly flirtation." D'Artagnan paused, but Aramis knew better than to interrupt. It was clear there was still more to be said. "She told me that she couldn't risk her future for me. She said she didn't love me!" D'Artagnan leaned forward, burying his face in his hands and bracing his elbows on his knees. Always tactile, Aramis placed a hand between his shoulders and rubbed soothingly.

"And I was cruel to her, in what I said," d'Artagnan whispered. "I could not believe she would say such things to me. They hurt, and I lashed out at her." D'Artagnan looked up at Aramis. "Do you know what I said to her? Do you know how I ended our conversation?" Without waiting for an answer, d'Artagnan quoted himself in a dull voice. "'I'm sure you've made the right decision. I mean, what use is love compared to money? Thank you for helping me see things more clearly.'" Aramis can't help but wince a bit at that. "When I went to collect my things so I could stay here at the garrison, I told her to enjoy her respectable life, and I said it as if it were a curse." D'Artagnan sounded close to tears. "She's made her feelings clear, but I still love her. God help me, I still love her. Have you any idea of the pain of loving someone and knowing you are not loved back?" It was only with difficulty that Aramis kept himself from reacting to d'Artagnan's words; he knew that bittersweet pain all too well.

Aramis held back the words he truly wanted to say - he had truly believed that Constance loved d'Artagnan, and for her to suddenly say otherwise indicated that perhaps more people were at work here than just her. Such things would bring no comfort and do little good. Instead, he simply wrapped his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. To his surprise, d'Artagnan didn't just allow it - he actively leaned into Aramis' side, trembling slightly. "You may cry, if you wish," Aramis whispered, rubbing d'Artagnan's shoulder with his hand. "I will think no less of you if you do, and I will tell no one of it."

"I love her," d'Artagnan whispered, his voice hitching slightly. "And I thought she loved me." Aramis could feel a wet patch growing on his shirt where d'Artagnan had buried his face.

"Oh, my dearest d'Artagnan," he whispered, bringing his other hand around to cradle d'Artagnan's head. "Love is rarely easy, nor is it ever straightforward. But I will always be here if you need me, as will Porthos and Athos. You will never have to go through these things alone."

"I often wished for an older brother," d'Artagnan murmured. "Now I have three."

Touched beyond measure, Aramis continued to hold d'Artagnan as he cried. When the boy finally stopped, Aramis could not help but smile slightly; d'Artagnan had fallen asleep in his arms. Carefully, trying his hardest not to wake him, Aramis laid d'Artagnan out on his bed, pulling off his boots and tucking the blankets around him. Then he stood, crossed the room to the door, and slipped out.

The next day was a Sunday. Normally, that made no difference to the Musketeers' schedule; occasionally, it meant more work than usual, if the day were a holiday. But Tréville was normally willing to rearrange schedules slightly if a Musketeer wished for time off to attend Mass. Aramis didn't often put in such a request himself - his parents would be horrified if they knew - but he often found attending Mass to be a good way to clear his head, which he desperately needed to do.

Tréville was in his office when Aramis arrived, sitting at his desk and looking over a stack of papers. "Aramis," he greeted as he looked up. "Is something wrong?"

"I was wondering if I could be spared tomorrow morning to attend Mass," Aramis replied, only barely noticing that he was fiddling with the cross hanging from his neck. The motion didn't escape Tréville; his eyes narrowed as he looked from Aramis' hand back to his face. Unlike d'Artagnan, Tréville was entirely aware of Aramis' nervous tells.

"Alright," he replied after a pause, thankfully not mentioning anything about the fiddling. "You were assigned to a patrol, but now that d'Artagnan's officially got his commission, I can put him in your place. How long will you be at Mass?"

"Um…" Preferably, Aramis would spend as much of the day as possible in the church, clearing his mind and praying for guidance, but he wasn't sure that Tréville would allow that. He continued fiddling with his cross. Tréville frowned.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked. Aramis tried to smile, but he felt completely exhausted.

"Just a bit of a headache," he replied. Tréville nodded slowly.

"I'm giving you tomorrow off," he stated. Aramis' eyebrows jerked up in surprise. "You'll be on call if you're needed, but I'm not assigning you to anything. Take the time to work through whatever's bothering you." Aramis didn't even try to deny it; he knew that Tréville would see right through him.

"Thank you, Captain," he replied, bowing slightly as he left the room. Tréville's eyes followed him out.

Although d'Artagnan was currently in his bed, Aramis still went back to his room. He was sure there were many beds open to him in the city, but the thought of going to any of the women he knew wasn't as pleasing as usual. And he couldn't risk going to Athos or Porthos, not with the thoughts currently in his mind.

Instead, Aramis sat at the end of his bed and watched d'Artagnan sleep until he too drifted off into dreams.

* * *

The next morning, Aramis woke before d'Artagnan and dressed quickly, hoping he could sneak out of the room before the boy awoke, and preferably get to the church without meeting up with Athos and Porthos.

Of course, that was not to be. D'Artagnan woke when Aramis was in the middle of shaving, and the incessant apologies about having stolen the bed delayed Aramis enough that Athos and Porthos had already arrived by the time he got outside. Still, there was hope that he wouldn't have to talk to them; Tréville caught Aramis' eye and nodded, giving him permission to leave.

But, of course, the hope that Athos and Porthos wouldn't notice was futile.

"Hey, Aramis! Where're you going?" Porthos called as he intercepted Aramis just before the gate. Athos frowned.

"Where's your pauldron?" he asked. Porthos' eyes zeroed in on Aramis' shoulder too, looking confused.

"I'm not on duty," Aramis replied, shrugging and hoping he looked as casual as he was trying to. "I asked Tréville for time off to go to Mass this morning."

"Why?" Athos asked, his frown deepening.

"Is something wrong?" Porthos demanded. Aramis chuckled.

"My friends, the fact that you assume something must be wrong to cause me to go to Mass seems to be fairly indicative of your attitudes towards religion in general," he remarked. "Nothing is wrong, except the fact that I haven't properly attended Mass for far too long. Now, if you'll excuse me…" Aramis slid past Porthos and Athos and left the garrison, knowing that Tréville was about to give the day's orders and thus they couldn't follow him. He hated avoiding his friends, but at the same time, he didn't think he could stand spending too much time with them, not in the mood he was in. He couldn't risk letting his feelings slip.

Mass was about to begin when Aramis reached the church. He lost himself in the familiar motions, letting the priest's words wash over him as he sat and knelt. He had almost forgotten how calming it was to attend a service. Aramis remained in his seat even as it ended, planning to spend as much of the day in the church as he could.

The pews emptied around him, some of the people leaving the church and others going to confession. Aramis knew he ought to do so as well - he had certainly committed enough sins since he had last done it, so long ago he wasn't quite sure when it was - but he couldn't bring himself to do it. That wasn't why he had gone to church. Aramis bowed his head, knelt on the ground, and prayed for guidance.

"My son?" a voice asked some time, startling Aramis. He looked up to see the priest there, looking down at him with some concern in his eyes. "My son, what is it that bothers you?"

"A matter of the heart, Father," Aramis replied, immediately resolving to tell as much of the truth as he could. "I am praying for guidance, but I do not know that I will receive it."

"God will always grant guidance to those who ask for it," the priest replied. "And as for matters of love, one must only look in the Holy Book to find advice." The priest picked up a Bible and opened it, flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted and paused.

" _in hoc cognovimus caritatem quoniam ille pro nobis animam suam posuit et nos debemus pro fratribus animas ponere_ ," he read. Aramis closed his eyes and listened. " _qui habuerit substantiam mundi et viderit fratrem suum necesse habere et clauserit viscera sua ab eo quomodo caritas Dei manet in eo. filioli non diligamus verbo nec lingua sed opere et veritate_."

"Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren," Aramis translated quietly, recognizing the verse. "But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth."

The priest closed the Bible and set it aside. "The first book of John, verse three, lines sixteen through eighteen," he stated simply.

"Love is not always quite so simple," Aramis countered. The priest sighed and placed a hand on Aramis' head for a moment.

"You are right. It is not. I pray you will receive the guidance you require."

"Thank you, Father," Aramis murmured. The priest walked off, leaving Aramis once again alone to his thoughts.

The words refused to leave him. _Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth_. But matters were not that straightforward. Aramis could love Athos and Porthos only in thought, not in word, tongue, deed, or truth.

 _Please guide me,_ Aramis pleaded. _Please, oh Lord, show me the way. I cannot believe that You would hate love merely because we are all male, or because there are three of us. Please show me what to do next._

Aramis picked up the queen's cross from where it hung around his neck. He was fond of the queen, but it was a different feeling than his love for Athos and Porthos. He wouldn't call it stronger or weaker, merely different. Of course, Aramis reminded himself, any sort of love for the queen could be dangerous. He pressed a kiss to the cross before letting it drop back back into the folds of his shirt.

Aramis lost himself in prayer, completely unaware of the passing of time. It wasn't until the priest returned and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder that Aramis realized how long he had been kneeling on the floor, his knees growing more and more sore, praying for guidance he wasn't sure he would receive.

"My son, the hour grows late," the priest told Aramis quietly. "I do not know what troubles you so much, but you must not let it consume you so much that you forget the world around."

"Thank you, Father," Aramis murmured, surprised at how hoarse his voice had become. He stood, his aching knees protesting the movement. "Thank you for everything."

"I pray you will receive your guidance," the priest replied. Aramis offered him a wry smile.

"As do I," he replied as he left the church. Slowly, he trudged back to the garrison, hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation with Athos and Porthos.

Of course, things weren't that easy.

"Aramis!" Porthos' voice greeted Aramis almost immediately as he stepped through the gates. "You didn't tell us you got the whole day off!"

"Tréville kept me on call, but he didn't assign me to active duty," Aramis replied, shooting Porthos an attempt at an easy grin. "Clearly, he prefers me to either of you buffoons."

"Athos, did you hear what he called us?" Porthos cried in affected anger. Athos rolled his eyes. Aramis felt himself relax; bantering with Athos and Porthos was as easy as breathing.

"We were going to go out for drinks," Athos stated dryly, a hint of a smirk dancing around his lips. "Do you wish to join us?"

"I was going to speak to Tréville," Aramis replied, the fluttering in his stomach reminding him of why he really shouldn't be trusting himself near Athos and Porthos at the moment. _Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth._ Aramis could lean forward right now and press his lips against Athos' or Porthos', if he wanted to.

Except he couldn't, because such things were illegal and he was in a place that was far from private. Aramis would have to control himself. He was practiced at doing so; he'd spent years shoving aside his feelings for Athos and Porthos, and whenever they grew to be too much to ignore, as they did every few months or so, Aramis would simply do whatever he could to avoid his friends until he got them under control. It seemed he would have to do so again.

"Ah. Aramis." Tréville looked up as Aramis entered his office, setting his paper aside. "Mass went well, I hope."

"Do you have anything I can do?" Aramis asked, ignoring the pleasantries. "I want to get out of Paris, even if only for a day or two."

Tréville frowned. "So Mass didn't solve whatever your problem was," he stated. Aramis pointedly kept from fiddling with anything, although he felt the urge. "Anything in particular you want to do?"

"I just want to go somewhere other than Paris," Aramis replied, shrugging and hoping he could pass as blasé. Tréville picked up the paper he'd set side when Aramis entered.

"The King has a message he wants delivered to Jean-François de Gondi, the archbishop in Versailles. He requested that I choose a musketeer to deliver it, to make sure it gets there safely." Tréville looked up at Aramis. "It's not a difficult mission, and you're very overqualified for it, but I can give you two days to deliver the message and bring back a response from the archbishop. Will that satisfy your wanderlust?"

Two days, Aramis knew, was more time than was needed for the mission; Versailles was less than fifteen miles from Paris. Tréville was allowing him time to think, and for that, Aramis was grateful. "It sounds perfect."

"You'll leave tomorrow morning. I'll expect you back before dusk on Tuesday." Tréville looked back down at his papers, a clear dismissal. Aramis inclined his head and left the office.

"Aramis!" Porthos and Athos were still waiting in the garrison, apparently for his benefit. "Ready for drinks?"

"Tréville has a mission for me. I'll have to leave tomorrow morning," Aramis called back, hoping he appeared appropriately contrite. "But you should take d'Artagnan with you. He was in a rather low mood last night, and I think he could benefit from some drinking with friends."

Athos frowned. "D'Artagnan has already left the garrison. Is something wrong that we ought to know about?"

"A matter between himself and Madame Bonacieux," Aramis replied, not wanting to reveal too much if d'Artagnan had not already told them himself. "Do you know where he went?"

"Some tavern, I think. He didn't tell us which one," Porthos replied, looking concerned. "He was acting a little off."

"Would you consider it excessive for us to go after d'Artagnan, with how he acted last night?" Athos asked Aramis. The memory of d'Artagnan sobbing on his shoulder returned to Aramis.

"No."

Athos nodded once, sharply. "Well then, gentlemen, it seems we have a Gascon to find."

"Our lost puppy," Porthos muttered under his breath. Athos pretended not to hear, but a hint of amusement showed on his face. Aramis grabbed his hat and followed the others out of the garrison.

Three taverns later, they found d'Artagnan, halfway into a bottle and entirely maudlin. As he started in on what had the potential to be an impressive rant about unrequited love, Aramis slipped off. He had no desire to discuss _la douleur exquise_ that night, not when he felt it so keenly himself.

* * *

The next morning, Aramis set off just after dawn. "Be back before dusk tomorrow," Tréville reminded him as he handed him the message from the king. Athos and Porthos were conspicuously absent, which was strange for them; they normally would see each other off if one of the three were going off on a mission without the others. But Aramis hadn't told Athos and Porthos how early he would be leaving to avoid just such an interaction. He felt a bit guilty for leaving Tréville to deal with them, but he didn't want to see them, not after the dream he had the night before. D'Artagnan's words had affected him more than he'd thought; he'd dreamt of himself exchanging lazy kisses with Athos and Porthos and awoken on the verge of tears. Tréville could deal with Athos and Porthos; Aramis was going to leave as quickly as he could.

There were few other people on the road at this hour of the morning. Aramis rode at a leisurely pace. He would reach Versailles in a few hours, even if he rode slowly. He aimed to arrive before noon at the very latest, but that wasn't for hours yet. There was no reason to rush, and riding slowly allowed him to think.

Whether or not he _wanted_ to be able to spend an in-depth amount of time thinking was another matter entirely.

He loved Athos and Porthos. He knew that, and he'd accepted it a while ago, as little as the thought might have pleased him. And the love for them was different than the love for any of his other musketeer brothers; he loved them in the most romantic sense. He wanted to kiss them, to hold their hands, to press against their bodies and be as close as they possibly could be. He wanted them, in every way possible.

But the very thought was impossible. It couldn't happen. Aramis could be a fool, but he wasn't that big a fool. Nothing could come of his feelings. Sometimes, his traitorous mind attempted to convince him otherwise; when Athos helped him tend to his wounds or Porthos casually slung an arm over his shoulders, he could almost imagine that they shared his feelings. But even if they did, there was the law to contend with; they could be burned to death if they were discovered. Aramis hated the thought of Athos and Porthos risking themselves in such a way.

Aramis shoved the thoughts from his head, leaning lower over his horse and urging it to a gallop. He knew he couldn't sustain the speed for long without driving his horse to exhaustion, but for a moment, he needed to escape from his thoughts, and what better way than to literally run from them?

After a few minutes, Aramis reined his horse back, settling down to a trot. He'd managed to live with Athos and Porthos for years after realizing his feelings; he could continue to do it. They wouldn't find out. If they hadn't found out thus far, they wouldn't find out.

Aramis tore his mind from his fruitless pining. Needing something to think about in lieu of that, he began mentally translating the orders Tréville had given him the night before into Spanish, and when that was done, into Latin. Next, he began translating Psalms from Latin into Spanish. By the time he reached Versailles, he had gotten through nearly two dozen of them.

"Ah, _monsieur le mousquetaire_ ," the stable master stated as Aramis trotted towards the stable, dismounting. "Have you a message from our king for the archbishop? We've been expecting one." Aramis tugged the paper out from where it was tucked under his jacket. The stable master nodded.

"The butler will announce you, if you go to the front door. I will personally tend to your horse."

"Thank you, _monsieur_ ," Aramis replied, inclining his head and tipping his hat slightly as he handed the stable master the reins of his horse. The butler gave him a disdainful look when he reached the front door, but he announced him to the archbishop. To Aramis' surprise, the archbishop called for Aramis to bring the letter to him in his study.

" _Monseigneur,_ " Aramis murmured reverently as he entered the study, bowing deeply. The archbishop held out a hand for the letter, which Aramis handed him. He wasn't dismissed, so he stood at the door as if on duty, silent and motionless, as the archbishop read the writing inside, a furrow in his brow.

"Are you to wait for a reply?" the archbishop finally asked, looking up. Aramis inclined his head.

"I am, _monseigneur_. I am due back in Paris at dusk tomorrow."

"A room will be found for you, then," the archbishop stated, "and I will give you my reply tomorrow, to bring back to the king." Aramis bowed deeply. The archbishop flicked his hand in dismissal, prompting Aramis to quickly and silently leave the study. A stablehand had already brought his bags inside, and a servant quickly picked them up and led Aramis to an empty room. It was a grand room, Aramis noted with surprise; he had expected to be put into an unused room in the servant's quarters, not a room fit for a guest.

"The archbishop wishes that you dine with him," the servant told Aramis. "His Excellency dines at seven o'clock. A servant will come to lead to you the dining room."

"I haven't anything to wear," Aramis protested immediately. "I cannot dine with His Excellency dressed in leather."

The servant frowned. "His Excellency specifically requested that you dine with him," he told Aramis. "I believe it best that you do."

"Then I shall dine with His Excellency," Aramis sighed. He couldn't reject the invitation, especially not considering the somewhat tentative diplomatic mission that had brought him to the archbishop's house in the first place. If he were impolite, it would reflect badly on the king, and if that caused the archbishop to view the king's letter poorly, Aramis would pay dearly for it.

"His Excellency will not mind if you dine in leather," the servant added. "He is an understanding man."

"Thank you," Aramis replied. The servant bowed, then left the room, closing the door behind him. Aramis looked around his room, splashing a bit of water on his face to clean off the dust from the road. The room was fine, far finer than anywhere Aramis had ever stayed before. The only place he could think of that even came close was the de la Fère mansion, but he had barely noticed its opulence in his desperate attempts to save Porthos' life.

The de la Fère mansion. Athos' mansion.

Athos…

Aramis shook himself fiercely. He would not think of Athos and Porthos. He would not allow those thoughts to chase him all the way here. Pawing through his bags, Aramis pulled out his copy of the Bible, opening it up. The pages fell open to the first book of John, where the pages had been pressed open for hours the night before. Despite himself, Aramis' eyes found the passages the priest had read him.

 _Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren. But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth._

But things were not that simple. Aramis knew that much. He almost slammed the book shut, but thought better of it at the last moment and carefully closed it in a way that would not crease the pages. Still, even with the Bible closed, the words seemed to tease him.

 _Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth._

Oh, how Aramis wished that he could.

* * *

Aramis left Versailles with some trepidation the next day, the archbishop's reply tucked into his jacket. Despite the time he had spent away from Paris, his previously foolproof way of subduing his feelings for Athos and Porthos had failed. The two of them lingered in his mind to an irritating extent. Aramis was certain that things would only get worse when he actually saw them.

And yet, he was due back in Paris at dusk, and dusk was quickly approaching. The sun was just beginning to set behind Aramis as he rode into the garrison, dismounting in an almost empty entrance. Jacques came out to take his horse and Aramis went up to Tréville's office to deliver the letter.

"Good," Tréville stated as Aramis handed him the sealed envelope. "I'm sure Serge can find you something to eat if you want it. Don't miss roll call tomorrow. You're dismissed."

"Sir." Aramis bowed and left the room. He hoped Athos and Porthos had already gone out for the evening. If he could spend one last night in his room, perhaps that could help him tamp down those feelings…

"Aramis!" Porthos called, and Aramis' stomach twisted in a not entirely unpleasant way. He turned around to see Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan hurrying over to him. "How was Versailles?" Porthos asked, slinging an arm around Aramis' shoulders.

"Lovely," Aramis replied. "Ah, _mon ami_ , the bed was like sleeping on a cloud. Never have I slept in a bed that comfortable, and you know I have sampled may beds throughout Paris."

"Why did Tréville send you on the mission?" d'Artagnan asked curiously. "Aren't you a bit overqualified for a simple messenger job?"

"Wanderlust, my dear d'Artagnan," Aramis replied grandly. "Sometimes, even the great city of Paris is too small to contain my wandering soul." Athos snorted in amusement. Undeterred, Aramis continued on. "I asked Tréville for a mission that would take me outside of Paris, and he had me deliver the king's letter to the archbishop."

"Hmm." D'Artagnan hummed in a somewhat disconcerting way, as if he'd almost figured something out and Aramis' words had been the last pieces of the puzzle. Aramis wondered what he'd given away.

"Have you eaten yet?" Athos asked Aramis. "We had thought to go to the Wren."

"To eat or to drink?" Aramis asked teasingly, arching an eyebrow. "I can barely keep up with you on a normal night, _mon ami_. I won't be able to do so on an empty stomach."

"We haven't eaten yet either," Porthos replied. "C'mon, Aramis. We've barely seen you for days. Since the competition, it feels like."

"Very well," Aramis sighed. "Although I would like to go to my rooms first. A change of clothes would be marvelous."

"Then we shall go," Athos replied, leading the way to Aramis' room. This wasn't entirely unusual - they would often continue their conversations while one of the three changed - but Aramis found he was more worried at the thought than he normally was. The reason, he thought ruefully, was rather obvious.

Aramis led the way into his room, with Athos and Porthos following behind. To Aramis' surprise, the door closed with a soft click before d'Artagnan came in. There was another click that Aramis recognized with a sickening surety. He crossed the room quickly and tugged at the door, but it was as he had feared; someone on the other side had locked it.

"D'Artagnan!" he snapped. "Let us out!"

"I'll let you out when the three of you finally talk," d'Artagnan called through the door. Athos let out a long groan.

"The pup's still on that?" Porthos asked. Aramis looked from Athos to Porthos.

"Still on what?" he demanded. Athos sighed.

"D'Artagnan believes you've been acting strangely around myself and Porthos. He had voiced a desire to make the three of us talk through whatever issue you have."

"Oh, no," Aramis breathed, sinking onto the bed. D'Artagnan had noticed. Aramis thought he'd been subtle enough that no one would see, but d'Artagnan had saw. Whether or not he understood the implications of what he'd seen was yet to be determined, but at that moment, it didn't seem particularly important. He had seen enough to feel that he had to lock Aramis in a room with Athos and Porthos until they talked.

"Thing is, the pup does have a bit of a point," Porthos stated slowly. "'Mis, you have been acting weird."

"Porthos-" Athos cautioned, but Aramis had already rocketed to his feet. Dimly, a part of his brain informed him that he was acting in a way that would only increase suspicion, but panic quickly silenced reason.

"I am not," he retorted. Porthos raised an eyebrow. "A man deserves to have his secrets," Aramis added lamely.

"Secrets from us?" Porthos demanded. Aramis felt his expression twist, but kept his mouth resolutely shut.

"Aramis deserves to have his secrets," Athos agreed softly. "Porthos, you know that as well as I. But Aramis, you cannot blame us for being worried."

"There's nothing to worry about," Aramis replied, scowling. This wasn't how he had wanted the night to go. This wasn't how he had wanted this discussion to go, the few times he'd dared to even imagine it. "Nothing's wrong." He tugged at the strings on his doublet, yanking it off harshly and hoping that masked the slight trembling in his fingers.

"Aramis." Athos' quiet voice was enough to freeze Aramis instantly. "Will you not talk to us?"

"'Mis, we're friends-" Porthos added, and Aramis couldn't stop the broken laugh from spilling from his lips. Athos and Porthos went silent immediately.

"But that's not what I _want_ ," Aramis cried, frustration making his movements to pull off his shirt jerky and harsh. He hurled the shirt at the floor, feeling horribly bare and exposed.

"What do you want?" Athos asked in a voice that was so quiet Aramis barely heard it. He could have pretended not to. He didn't have to answer, and yet…

"More," Aramis breathed, the word escaping his tongue. "I want you, both of you. I want _more_ than just friendship. And I don't care that it's illegal," he added with defiance in his voice. "I don't care that the Church thinks it's wrong. It doesn't feel wrong to me." _Nothing that feels this good could be wrong_ , Aramis didn't add. He was potentially teetering on the brink of ruin already. If Athos and Porthos didn't feel the same way, or worse, if they took offense to Aramis' feelings, things could go very wrong, very fast.

"It's not wrong," Athos said quietly. "Or if it is, we're both wrong."

"Make that three of us," Porthos added and oh, Aramis had never even dared to imagine this.

"You mean…" He looked from Athos to Porthos with wide eyes. "You _both_ …"

"So it would seem," Athos replied dryly, but there was a hint of a tremble in his voice that gave his feelings away.

"It's dangerous," Aramis warned. "If anyone finds out-"

"Do you want this?" Athos asked simply. Aramis could do nothing but nod helplessly. "Porthos?"

"Of course I do," Porthos replied. "God, I've wanted you both since I first met you."

"I believe it to be worth the risk," Athos declared. "If you do not agree, we need never discuss this again. But if you do-"

"I do," Aramis interrupted desperately. He hated the risk, hated that it existed, hated that it put Athos and Porthos in danger, but he also knew that he wanted this relationship too much to even think about giving it up.

"Are we all in agreement, then?" Athos asked, his voice serious but his eyes sparkling.

"Stop making it sound like a business deal, Athos," Porthos retorted. "We're doing this. Right?" Athos and Aramis both nodded. Porthos' smile made his whole face _shine_. "Good." He crossed to the door and banged on it twice. "Pup!" he shouted through it. "We talked. Let us out." Turning to Aramis, Porthos added, "And 'Mis, put on a goddamn shirt or dinner is going to be very late."

Aramis' throat went dry at the thought. He looked down at the shirt he'd set out, wondering if dinner was worth it or if he should call Porthos' bluff. Athos rolled his eyes. "Aramis, put on a shirt," he commanded. "We'll have time enough for that after we eat."

Aramis couldn't put on his shirt fast enough.

D'Artagnan opened the door and let the three of them out of the room, studying them all as they filed into the hallway. "You look like you talked," he finally announced.

"You look like you want me to make you clean every gun in the armory as punishment for the stunt you just pulled," Athos retorted dryly. A hint of panic flashed on d'Artagnan's face.

"Leave him alone, Athos," Aramis urged, putting a hand on Athos' arm. "We _did_ need to talk. So long as d'Artagnan promises to never do it again, I think we can let him get away with it just the once."

"Very well," Athos sighed. "D'Artagnan, I hope you never even _think_ of doing this again." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

Porthos slung an arm around Athos' shoulders. "Are we going to the Wren or not? Cause I'm starved."

"Then let us go," Athos declared, leaving the garrison with Porthos next to him. Aramis fell in step next to d'Artagnan.

"Did your talk help?" d'Artagnan asked quietly. Aramis turned to him. "You were acting strangely," d'Artagnan added. "I've never seen you avoid Athos and Porthos like that before. I thought you needed to talk with them."

"You're right," Aramis admitted. "We did need to talk. And I don't know if the others feel the same way, but I'm grateful you shut us all up in that room." At d'Artagnan's look of surprise, Aramis quickly added, "If you do it again, I won't defend you against Athos. But just this once, I'm grateful."

"I'm glad to help," d'Artagnan replied. Aramis studied him. There was something a bit off about the boy, as if he were weighed down in some way.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently.

"Of course I am," d'Artagnan replied, trying too hard to sound bright. Aramis knew a lie when he heard one, but before he could say anything else, d'Artagnan sped up to join Athos and Porthos.

Aramis lingered behind for a moment longer. There was definitely something off about d'Artagnan, whether he admitted it or not. Aramis had little doubt as to what it stemmed from, but he felt that confronting d'Artagnan about his split with Constance was something that would require the utmost delicacy.

And confront him he would, but later. That night belonged to Aramis and Athos and Porthos. As selfish as it was, Aramis wanted just that one night to be theirs.

"'Mis, what are you hanging back there for?" Porthos called. Aramis sped up and joined the three of them.

"Perhaps I am admiring the view from behind," he teased softly. Porthos smirked.

"Might have done that a few times myself," he admitted. "It's not a bad thing to look at."

"Gentlemen," Athos drawled. "If we could save this talk for when we have a bit more _privacy_ …" There was a hint of a warning in the scold. Aramis knew he was right. This wasn't something to talk about in the street so openly. This was something that had to wait for the privacy of their own rooms.

"Is that a promise?" he teased. Athos rolled his eyes.

"If that is what it takes, then yes. It is a promise."

"Let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth," Aramis whispered softly. Porthos blinked and looked at him.

"What was that?" he asked. Aramis smiled.

"Nothing," he replied. "Nothing at all."

* * *

 **And since I am apparently unable to write Musketeers fics without doing immense amounts of research, here are some end notes:**

 **The title comes from the main verse repeated throughout the fic: 1 John 3:18. When the priest reads to Aramis from the Bible, he reads 1 John 3:16-18. The Latin version of these verses is from the Vulgate, which was the official Latin version of the Bible as of the mid-16th century (specifically, the Council of Trent). The English translation chosen is the King James Version, which was completed in 1611 and thus the right vernacular (although obviously in Paris they would speak French and not English).**

 **From 1575 to 1632, Versailles belonged to the Gondi family. Jean-François de Gondi, the archbishop Aramis goes to visit, was the first archbishop of Paris. It was his father, Albert de Gondi, who bought Versailles in 1575. It was during the 1600s that Louis XIII (the Louis of the show) began to buy the property. He bought some land for private hunting in 1622 and then more in 1624, enough to build his own hunting lodge. In 1632, he bought the entirety of the land. I thought it seemed reasonable that Louis would be in contact with de Gondi, considering a) he was the archbishop of Paris and b) considering the show begins in 1630, he would buy the property approximately two years later.**

 **Regarding the anti-sodomy laws referenced in this fic, sodomy was a serious crime in France before the Revolution. In 1750, the last homosexuals were burned to death, but in 1630, these laws would be thriving. Aramis' fears about something happening to Athos and Porthos due to their relationship are very real, and Athos' caution is reasonable.**

 **And, last but not least, the phrase "emla douleur exquise/em," used by Aramis at the end of the second part, is a French term that roughly translates to "the pain of loving someone you know you can never have." I'm not sure if the phrase was in use in the 1630s, but it matched the story too well to leave it out.**


End file.
